Hereaftermath
by KCS
Summary: In the wake of Hereafter, the friends and family of the Man of Steel must learn to live with the knowledge that Superman is dead. One man refuses to believe this, and sets out to prove it. STANDALONE CONCLUSION now up.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: _Hereaftermath _  
**Fandom**: DCAU (toonverse) - Justice League/JLU  
**Characters**: Bruce Wayne (Batman), Diana (Wonder Woman), Lois Lane, J'onn J'onnz (the Martian Manhunter), Kara Kent (Supergirl), Ray Palmer (the Atom), Dick Grayson (Nightwing), multiple various JLU and DCAU heroes and villains, Clark Kent (Superman) in absentia for now  
**Pairings**: SM/LL, BM/WW - but only background  
**Genre**: Friendship, h/c  
**Warnings**: (apparent) character death. Spoilers for the JLU episode _Hereafter_, as well as various basic DCAU spoilers such as _World's Finest, _etc.  
**Summary**: In the wake of _Hereafter_, the friends and families of Clark Kent/Superman must learn to live with the knowledge that Superman is dead. One man refuses to believe this, and while balancing the aftershocks of Superman's death and its effects on the League and the world, sets out to prove it.

**A/N: **The two-part JLU episode _Hereafter _left far too many plot holes and unfulfilled details and scenes. This is my attempt to make a researched, scientific story detailing the enormity of details needing to be addressed with Superman's death as well as the scientific processes Batman would have gone through in an effort to discover what really had happened to him. Story begins with Superman's disappearance and progresses to the night after his return to present-day Metropolis, studying the effects of his death upon those who were associated with him, and detailing one man's determination to prove the truth. Not an AU, in technicality, more of what I believe might - or should - have accompanied the glimpses we got in the episode. Story starts slowly and builds with intensity each coming chapter.

**Further AN:** I really, really want to get this fic going because it's sat on my hard drive half-finished for almost six months now. I have the first three chapters and the last two done (out of fifteenish that I have outlined), and want to start posting so that I will have motivation to finish the in-between chapters. That being said, updates might be a bit slow at first but comments and reviews will probably give me a virtual kick in the pants to get it moving. :)

* * *

_Superman was dead._

Possibly the most frightening three words anyone had heard in many years, they were all the same true. And _wrong_; so wrong that it seemed the world should be ending its existence along with its greatest hero. No one had ever dreamed the Justice League's strongest member would be the first to fall, gone in a brilliant split-second like a shooting star vanishing from desperate sight.

He had wondered, often enough, just because he knew Clark's overly trusting heart could lead him – and had led him – into one too many traps, if that possibility might ever come true, that the Man of Steel would be the first to go. But he'd never dreamed it would be like _this_.

He'd spent some horrible nights before – the sleepless ones where Gotham's worst claimed his blood and sweat until after dawn; the sleeping ones where his unconscious mind betrayed his memory and insomnia was welcomed afterwards; the ones where almost constant pain and constant weariness sapped his energy and he barely stayed awake during meetings and parties and conferences the next day or three; and, worst of all, those spent in activities to maintain his playboy reputation, when all he could think about was what was happening in _his_ city while he whiled away the darkest hours with the most popular debutante of the season.

But no torture the Joker had or would ever dream up could compare with this; and added to it was the fact that they hadn't reached the Daily Planet building before all the channels were playing the news clip of Metropolis's eternal hero literally disintegrating before their horrified eyes. Before _his _eyes, too, because that was all he could see against the white lenses of his cowl, over and over, a continual acid rain that was steadily corroding its way deeper into his memory.

He was proud of Lois, though – _Clark_ would be proud of Lois – for taking it like the trooper she was. And Clark would be proud of the League, too; it was a shame that it had taken his death to make them all, even Hawkgirl and Diana, work together without so much as a ripple of tension. They'd denied more than a cursory statement to the press and police for the moment, and disappeared before they could be mobbed by reporters or hysterical bystanders. Then they appeared _en masse_ at the building every Metropolite knew Superman regarded as his special territory.

They were too late to break the news, since probably half the staff had helplessly watched the entire thing from the windows of the thirty-seven stories, but early enough that the initial shock hadn't yet given way to the chaos of grief; and their respectful condolences and the fact that the entire League had made the trip up to the press room (none of them had a _choice_ in the matter, he made that perfectly clear and none dared disobey) made the reactions somewhat calmer than would have been had they denied the terrible facts.

But he was the only one in the room that knew the _Planet_ had lost _two_ friends, a guardian, and a darn good reporter today, and that knowledge weighed on him as heavily as the scrap of red cloth hidden in his utility belt.

J'onn, it had been decided, would be the only one to speak to any media about the death of Superman, and the Martian immediately went to Perry White to give him full details of what had happened. Flash, at a nudge from the Lantern, buttonholed a sniffling Jimmy Olson. But he declined Diana's offer and went to Lois Lane himself; it was the least he could do. The _only_ thing he could do, now; and besides he owed it to both Superman and Clark Kent to do it.

He caught the reporter's stunned, wide-eyed attention and slipped into Perry White's empty office while the editor was speaking with J'onn. A moment later she followed, and the next fifteen minutes melted into a puddle of chaotic thoughts and half-whispered moments, as his mind whirred in perfect detachment to fill in all the pieces that would need to be taken care of while at the same time he tried his awkward best to comfort the woman Clark loved – _had_ loved. His own fling with Lois had been wonderful, passionate, if short-lived, and they were both long since completely over it – but still, the only thing he would have hated more than having to deal with her reaction to Superman's death would be for some idiot to do it in a less tactful way. She deserved far better, and he would see she had some privacy for a few minutes at least.

The main problem presently racing through his mind with the strength of an industrial electric current, was what on earth was he supposed to tell the world about Clark Kent? Unfortunately for everyone, the reporter had been working at his desk when the call came in from downtown – that was why Bruce had had to stall for time with Kalibak – and this was going to take a _lot_ of explaining. But just at the moment, no one seemed to realize that Kent was missing.

Lois was still crying, and he was grinding his jaw in an effort to not think about how much less painful it would be to do the same himself, when White returned to his office, his honest face grief-stricken. He paused for a moment incredulously, seeing his star reporter sobbing on the shoulder of the darkest of the superheroes occupying his offices, and raised a greying eyebrow.

"I thought she deserved some privacy," Batman growled, but he didn't even need to start glowering to make White agree.

"It'll be all right, Lois."

He heard the familiar trite platitudes (though in White's defense there was really nothing better to say), and rolled his eyes angrily behind the cowl at the blatant lie. It _wasn't_ going to be all right. _Ever_. He should know.

White punched the intercom. "Hold the presses, Jake. We'll have a front-page replacement in an hour." The elderly editor looked up sadly. "Thank you for coming, Batman – all of you."

"Superman was one of us," J'onn's soothing voice spoke quietly from the doorway, where his intimidating presence was keeping the rest of the reporters corralled, milling about in the outer newsroom. "He loved the people of the world, and Metropolis, but especially his friends here. If we can do anything, please do not hesitate to ask us."

The editor pressed the intercom again. "Anyone seen Kent?" he bellowed. "And get me pictures of this in the next half hour, Olson!"

Batman stiffened, but evened his voice so no one could have noticed. "Clark Kent is missing?"

"Yes, he is," White muttered, shuffling through papers on his desk. "He left over an hour ago, said he forgot and parked his car in a four-hour parking zone and had to move it. Where the dickens…"

Bruce flicked a quick thought over to the imposing figure hovering in the doorway, and received a short nod. That was what he respected most about J'onn; while the Martian _could_ read minds, he never _did_ with memories or thoughts he could sense were very personal. And, he didn't ask pointless, asinine questions – something the Batman appreciated.

"I saw Mr. Kent outside a while ago during the storm," J'onn said soberly. White glanced up. "In all probability, upon his return, when he heard about and saw the battle taking place, he decided to cover the story from somewhere."

"Well, if he didn't get himself back here in time for this, he's not getting any kind of byline," White grumbled under his breath. "Knowing him, he's probably still out there hiding until the storm blows over."

Bruce relaxed slightly, leaving that angle until he could think of the best story to give the workers of the Planet regarding Kent's mysterious disappearance, sometime when he could actually _think_ straight. "I have things to take care of now. You understand," he said quietly into Lois's ear. "You still have my number?"

Lois's watery laugh teetered on the feathery edge of hysteria, but she nodded and stepped back from him, blurry-eyed. "If I didn't know you better, I'd swear that was the most _inappropriately_-timed pickup line I've ever heard," she gasped, with a handkerchief dabbing at her eyes and then the damp patch on his cape. He winced invisibly, but she offered him a brave smile. "Yes, I have it."

"Good girl," he muttered, only when she had moved away and couldn't hear him.

White had stepped past the Martian into the press room and now held up a hand for some sort of order. "I need a four-column spread ghostwritten in forty minutes, full rewrite in an hour," he barked, for he was still a newspaperman to the core, even in the face of tragedy. The people of Metropolis were _not_ going to get the Story of the Century from the _Globe_ or _Daily Blade_ just because they were busy grieving a fallen hero. "Don't volunteer for this unless you –"

He was cut off by such a loud din that it nearly rattled the spotless windows, and for a minute nothing could be done or heard other than every good reporter on the staff vying for the privilege of writing Superman's eulogy.

J'onn jumped, startled, when Lois shoved past him into the room behind White. The room quieted slightly upon her entrance (everyone who _was_ anyone knew that Lois Lane and Superman had at least something going between them). Folding her arms, she glared venomously at the rest of the newsroom.

"_I'm_ writing it," she snapped thickly, in a tone that could eat its way through bullet-proof glass faster than any corrosive known to science. "Any _problems_ with that?"

The room went dead silent except for the monitor overhead, with Snapper Carr's voice droning on and on about the death of earth's greatest hero.

"And someone mute that d--- television!"

"Yes, ma'am," Flash gulped, and silenced the broadcast in a nanosecond.

Batman had never been so proud.


	2. Chapter 2

**A chapter a week seems to be all my muse is up to with this story, and my week ahead looks kind of crazy with a conference I have to go to plus starting a new job. I will still try to get Chapter Three up by Saturday, anyway. Comments are love, and thank you to those who have given them so far - they're a great incentive for my uncooperative JLU muse! :)**

**EDIT: Fixed the wacky bug that made the chapter repeat twice in the same document. Weirdness. Sorry about that!**

* * *

Diana, Princess of the Amazons, had not yet seen much of personal death and its consequences in Man's World. In war there were always casualties, for this was to be expected; but those she had seen only on a grand scale, and not the impact such an event could have upon those closest to the one who was chosen to depart this world.

And now she never again wanted to see such terrible grief, or feel it. Amazons were immortal, warriors protected by the gods; _this_ was the ordained order of life, not the tears and sorrow and burning pain she felt inside now, and which was mirrored on each face in Metropolis she had seen this afternoon. It all seemed so wrong, the scales unbalanced as if Fate was not paying close enough attention; and she had never known it was even physically _possible_ to ache this deeply, the grief slicing through straight to her heart in the knowledge that Superman had without a second thought given his life to save hers and Batman's.

Numbly she watched from near a window, oblivious to the admiring looks the younger _Planet_ staff were shooting her despite the shock of the situation, as Batman – Bruce Wayne, she already knew he was though he had never admitted it – finished conferring with the elderly man who apparently was in charge of this massive edifice.

Her eyes fastened immediately upon the reporter named Lane, who had just single-handedly silenced an entire room of men; and as their gazes locked, woman to woman, she gave a respectful nod to acknowledge Miss Lane's worthiness of Superman's affections. This proud young woman did not deserve to lose the man she loved, simply because he wished to save another, and suddenly the Princess felt the need to say so to her.

But before she could make her way to where the Lane woman was now giving orders to a gangly youth holding a camera, Diana suddenly noticed that no longer could she see a familiar set of bat-ears (and by now she was _quite_ adept at picking them out of any crowd), and upon rising a few inches off the floor she realized the Batman had disappeared.

_Go after him_, a command-request came suddenly from the Martian.

_Why?_ She wondered, but immediately slipped out the back door marked _Stairs_ (the Batman never left through the front if a back exit were available, she had long since noticed).

_Because he just shut me out of his thoughts. _

Her eyes widened, and she quickened her pace down the steps. After brushing past a few shell-shocked reporters, she finally caught up with the stalking Batman just outside the service entrance doors. A heavy drizzle still misted across the city, as if the gods themselves were weeping over this unspeakable tragedy, and the man she sought was striding desperately away from the building she had just exited, oblivious to the wide-eyed looks passers-by were casting his imposing figure.

Batman half-turned, the shadows still shielding his expression, when she called after him, but didn't stop. Undeterred, she merely landed with a gentle thump on the wet pavement ahead of him.

"You're in my way, Diana." The low growl was filled with less blunt menace than she had ever heard before, and that alone was worrisome.

"Where are you going?"

"I have work to do." She saw his lips tighten under the cowl, and he moved to go around her, jerking his cape out of a puddle left from the rainstorm.

Frowning, she allowed him to pass but then fell into light step beside him. "Then I'm coming with you."

"_No_."

No man defied an Amazon. And besides, obviously even the growl directed at her was only half-hearted. "You _will_ not stop me," she informed him regally, and was more than prepared to lasso him to prove it if necessary.

Batman glanced sidelong at her, scowling darker than the cloudbank overhead, but then gave up with a slump of shoulder. She noticed now that he didn't care, apparently, that his cape was dragging through the mud-spatters on the sidewalk. A fallen hero, a fallen banner – the unconscious symbolism was not lost upon her classical mind.

"Whatever," he finally sighed, pressing the communicator on his belt to summon his plane.

Ten seconds later, she was floating up beside him as his retractable grappling-hook pulled him toward the cockpit (he'd declined her offer of a lift with less than his usual coldness). "Where are we going?"

Swinging into the pilot's seat, he jerked his head back toward the remaining seat and, once she'd settled in, closed the glass. Ramming the controls to obey his will (the only thing he could control today, apparently), he veered due west, flying under the cloud cover until he could punch through a thinner gray mass into the sky and accelerate his speed. Metropolis air traffic had been grounded and all incoming flights diverted at the onset of Weather Wizard's hurricane conditions, and the air frequencies were eerily quiet, only adding to the isolation that compressed the atmosphere inside the cockpit.

Metropolis shrank and then disappeared below them, melting into clear evening skies and increasingly flat grasslands.

"I have to tell his parents," he finally said in a low voice, while sending a message to J'onn to confiscate the evidence from the crime scene and leave it at the Gotham PD for him to pick up after he was done with this ordeal.

The Princess blinked back a small tear, her own silent grief forgotten for the moment. "His parents? Superman has no parents; was he not the last survivor of the planet Krypton?"

She heard a creak of leather as Bruce's hands tightened on the controls. "He was a baby at that time, Diana, and only a few months old when he landed on Earth. He was raised by a human family."

Diana absorbed this information slowly, and glanced down over the plains below the dotted clouds. "Where, then, does his family reside?" she asked. She had no idea the North America had such _flat_ lands, and so few inhabitants; most of her time on this planet had been spent in the major cities, since that was where the criminals usually were. She had no real reason to dwell amongst the mortals, and almost always stayed on the Watchtower when not on duty.

"Kansas," Batman replied tonelessly. "Smallville. We'll be there in fifteen minutes." He could get there faster than that, but it would take that long to formulate the proper way to tell a harmless old man and woman that their son had died saving his own nearly-worthless life…

"If it is such a small town, then will we not draw attention to ourselves?"

"Yes. Which is why we'll have to land a few miles away from the Kent farm and go on foot across those stupid cornfields," he muttered, banking slightly to the south and then re-settling on course.

_Clark__ could fly from Metropolis to Smallville in something like six seconds, if he chose, and in just a few minutes longer if he were carrying a passenger…_

"Cornfields?" his traveling companion was asking, puzzled.

"_Later_, Diana." It came out more as a growl than anything else, but she didn't seem to mind and so he didn't bother thinking of how to phrase an apology. She also took the hint to leave him alone. Smart woman.

He began to descend gradually, and emerged under the clouds into a nearly-dark sky. Scattered lights twinkled at long intervals below, and he circled over the farm he knew from his coordinates was the Kents', though he couldn't tell at this altitude.

Suddenly, so poignantly he nearly sent the plane into a nosedive, he found himself struck broadside with the painful recollection of how he'd harshly turned down Clark's invitation to spend last Thanksgiving out here on this wretched farm. He never dreamed he would ever _regret_ that decision…

_Get hold of yourself; you don't have time for any of this and it's not going to get any easier the longer you take to get there._

Firmly pushing everything but the landing instructions from his mind, he set the Batplane down several miles away from the farm, in the middle of precisely nothing (which was most of Kansas) other than thick, scrubby grass and a few scattered trees. When he began stalking through the latter Diana apparently lost patience and lifted him by the shoulders of his costume, flying despite his snarled protests to the darkened, gravel-lined drive of the farm in a matter of minutes. Upon landing, he melted back into the folds of his cape and didn't thank her, but she didn't seem to be expecting it.

And now, standing with hand upraised to knock on the door, he suddenly wished he had sent the Martian to do this. He didn't want to have to –

The door opened before he could knock, sending a spreading glow of warm yellow light to push back the darkness for a radiant few feet. His hand dropped back to his side, arm stiff as a ramrod, and he looked at the calm features of an elderly man. Jonathan Kent appeared composed, save for the tightness of his jaw, and after an initially surprised look at seeing two costumed superheroes on his doorstep held out a hand to the foremost.

Batman took it, briefly, and ducked his head going under the door-frame, the ear-tips of his cowl just scraping the wooden framing. Diana followed, silent with wonder at the simplicity of the small farmhouse; looking at Superman, she never would have guessed he grew up in a place so very small and plain and…_common_.

"You know why we're here, I take it," Bruce said directly, but she noticed the shaved-ice edge was gone from his voice.

"We know," a soft, feminine voice spoke up from behind the old man, and the Princess saw Superman's mother for the first time. She could feel at once that this woman – this _lady_ – was to be trusted, respected, and loved. Everything about her save the obvious difference in height reminded the exile of her own mother, and for the countless time today she found herself blinking back burning tears.

Her eyes glistening but admirably calm, the little woman came to stand beside her husband, seemingly not surprised to see The Batman standing in her small living room. "It's been all over the radio."

"We are very sorry for your loss," Diana spoke up softly from behind Batman's immobile shoulder.

The older woman's eyes flitted up to her face, and she suddenly felt very awkward, dressed as she was in comparison to the older woman, and while grieving for the first time in her protected life. But Martha Kent's eyes softened, and some of the ice in the room melted. "Thank you – Wonder Woman, is it?"

"You may call me Diana, if you like," she replied with an answering smile.

"Thank you, Diana. Won't you both sit down for a while?"

"We don't have time," Batman interrupted brusquely, his fists clenching. "At least _I_ don't."

Diana was about to reprimand him, discreetly, for his insolence in the face of grief, but apparently Jonathan Kent understood the man better than she did for he only nodded, calm and determined. "We understand the amount of work you have ahead of you clearing up the details of – of this," he said quietly. "What do you need from us?"

"Is Kara here?"

"No," Mrs. Kent sighed, sinking down into the larger of the armchairs with her head in one hand. "She took off straight to the Fortress, to lock down security and deactivate the robots. Frankly," she continued in a quieter tone, as Diana hesitantly took the seat beside her, "I don't think she wanted to sit around here and listen to the newsreels any more."

"Good girl," he mused approvingly. "I'll be down there tomorrow."

"How are you going to explain Clark's disappearance, Batman?" Jonathan Kent asked wearily, rubbing a sleeve once across his eyes and going to sit across from his wife. "He was working today, too…and when…when will the arrangements be made?"

"I don't know yet," he admitted, cringing behind the façade of steady determination; the only thing worse than having to plan a son's funeral would be to have to stand by while someone else did. But that couldn't be helped now. He swallowed and forged onward, steeling his voice back into its former clipped preciseness. "But of course the Justice League, or at least Wayne Enterprises, will pay for the entirety of your trip to Metropolis. In all probability, you're going to have to fake his funeral later this month."

"_Clark_ Kent?" Diana inquired, suddenly remembering a newspaper headline of a few months previously. "You mean –"

"I doubt he would mind your knowing his secret, dear," Martha Kent answered with a warm smile. "He talked about you quite often, you know. Our son is Clark Kent, the _Daily Planet_ reporter."

Her eyes met the Batman's hidden ones, and then it all made sense. The _Planet_, why Bruce had insisted they go there afterwards, why he looked so stricken when Perry White asked if anyone had seen Clark Kent. It all fit, and the knowledge saddened her even more to know that in reality two men had died and left friends behind to mourn.

She was further surprised, and obviously so were the elder Kents, when Bruce suddenly collapsed more than sat in a nearby chair – passing over the large, comfortable one closest to him for some reason – and wearily pulled back his cowl to face the elderly couple without the barrier of the mask. Obviously, Bruce Wayne was a trusted friend in this house, because she had never seen him remove the cowl while still in costume.

"That was Clark's favorite chair," Martha Kent explained into Diana's ear, and she looked down in sympathy.

"You deserve to know exactly what happened," Bruce began, clenching gloved hands on the arms of the chair.

"We can guess," Jonathan Kent interjected kindly.

"No," he responded through a tight jaw. "This wasn't a battle to save the world – it wasn't even an attack on the League. No Apokoliptan gods, no Kryptonite, not even any _warnings_. This was a _vendetta_, and that's all there is to it. They only wanted _him_, and when we happened to get in the way –"

Diana was quite unaccustomed to comforting anyone, for on Themyscira there was no hardship or grief; but somehow her instincts knew to reach over and cover the older woman's hand with her own, as Bruce ground painfully to a halt in his narrative and seemed unable to continue in the same tone.

"Your son gave his life for us, Mrs. Kent," she spoke compassionately, and blinked back a tear at the memory of those horrible moments. "Toyman, he…he had a cannon, with some sort of energy that vaporized anything it touched…"

"And he took the impact of the blast meant for Diana and me," Bruce snapped, tight as a wound bow-string.

They all three jumped as with a swish of cape the man rocketed from his chair and, without even asking permission, disappeared up the narrow flight of stairs.

Diana, shocked at the reaction and the breach of courtesy, tried to apologize, but the older woman only smiled sadly. "It's quite all right, my dear," she said, fumbling for a nearby box of tissues.

Jonathan shoved the box across the coffee table toward his wife, and continued for her. "He's grieving in his own way, you know. Clark brought him here only a few times, once when the man was injured somewhere on the West Coast and circumstances couldn't get him to a hospital. But he saw Bruce Wayne – Batman – as a very good friend. And you too, Diana." The Princess tried to smile, and didn't quite make it. "He talked about the two of you – all of his friends, but you two especially – quite often."

"He was a true hero," Diana whispered, and wished she had thought to tell him so before it was now too late.

"We've had to always be prepared for something like this," Martha Kent whispered, gazing peacefully at the other woman. "And I know I would rather it happen like this, than in a more pointless fight over people who don't even truly appreciate him, like we've always been afraid of."

There had been no sound from upstairs, and after a moment of silence Jonathan nodded toward the steps. "You'd better check on him, I think," he stated quietly.

Diana rose instantly, and carefully plumped the sofa pillow and its handmade covering back into its immaculate place.

"It's the third door on the left," she heard Martha call with a tone of deep wistfulness after her as she ascended, the old wood creaking beneath her light weight.

She passed a pretty little feminine room – Supergirl's, obviously – and continued down the hall, past the modest bath on the right and on to the second room. The door stood ajar, and she silently pushed it open the rest of the way. She took in the small bed – how could Superman still fit on that? – the little dresser and desk, still bearing scratches from careless childish hands through the years, the scattered pencils and notepads and and clipped newspaper articles, the dusty model planes and action figures on the few rough wooden shelves, the red curtains and blue bedspread.

Someone (she suspected Supergirl), in a fit of mischief, had thought it would be funny to make Clark a fleece afghan from material printed with his flamboyant, iconic red-and-gold S. It was this last item that was clenched tightly in both of Bruce's gauntleted hands, as he sat on the edge of the small bed.

He was looking at the bedside table, where rested a pair of useless glasses and three simply-framed photos; the largest one, of Superman and Lois Lane, the former grinning guiltily and the latter with an annoyed I'm-going-to-murder-you expression on her face and a hand on her hip, autographed by Jimmy Olson; the second, an obviously old family portrait of Clark and Kara with the two older Kents; and the last, that ridiculous photo the Flash had taken of all of them in the Watchtower just after it had been set into orbit. Bruce had nearly killed the Speedster for demanding what he called a 'group hug,' pressing the shutter button and then dashing to initiate it before the picture was snapped, and returning before the camera hit the ground.

She picked up the last picture and gently brushed it free of dust, then set it reverently back onto the polished table-top.

"He's gone, Diana." Bruce's stunned voice jolted her from her thoughts back into the present.

"I know," she replied gently.

"No, you _don't_." His voice was colder now, harder, and she debated whether or not to take that blanket from him before he shredded it without meaning to. "He's not _dead_, he's _gone_."

Denial. Well, that was to be expected. She sighed, and cautiously laid a hand on the tense shoulder. "Bruce, you have to –"

He jerked away, throwing the blanket down onto the bed in a small red heap of puddling fleece, and pacing around the tiny room. "He's _Superman_, Diana. We're not talking about your average meta, we're talking about _Superman_. He can't just _die _from any technology we know of in this world short of an intense nuclear explosion. This isn't _possible_."

"We saw it happen, Bruce," she answered just above a whisper. "It must _be_ possible."

"Diana, he is supposed to be invulnerable! It – it has to break some kind of universal law, somehow…"

That extremely unscientific answer worried her more than the fact that he had paused, wide-eyed, by the small corner desk, and had picked up a framed newspaper clipping. _World's Finest Heroes Join Forces,_ read the headline, dated many years ago and written by Lois Lane. Superman's ridiculous grin and Batman's tolerant half-scowl as they shook hands stared back at her as she looked over the black-clad shoulder.

"He kept _everything_," Bruce muttered hoarsely.

"Take it," said a gentle voice from the doorway, and the both spun round to see the older Kents standing there, respectfully not entering to crowd the tiny space left.

"What?"

"Take it," Martha Kent repeated, blinking suspiciously at the sights of the familiar room. "He would…want you to have something."

The cold blue eyes slid back down to the small frame, where they were reflected eerily in the protective glass. Then a gloved hand reached up, and pulled the cowl back over his face.

"Thank you," he said solemnly, and was gone down the stairs in a swirl of black and gray.

_"Take care of them, Diana,"_ she heard through her comm-link a moment later, and then the channel was broken off completely as the door shut below.

Sighing, she held out a hand to the older woman, and smiled as best she could through a haze of tears. "I would love to stay for a little while, if you do not mind my company, Mrs. Kent."

When she saw an answering smile and hand, she knew she had done the correct thing. Perhaps Superman, somehow, would know that someone was caring for his mother.

It was the least she could do, and all she could do now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: _Hereaftermath _  
**Fandom**: DCAU (toonverse) - Justice League/JLU  
**Characters**: Bruce Wayne (Batman), Diana (Wonder Woman), Lois Lane, J'onn J'onnz (the Martian Manhunter), Kara Kent (Supergirl), Ray Palmer (the Atom), Dick Grayson (Nightwing), multiple various JLU and DCAU heroes and villains, Clark Kent (Superman) in absentia for now  
**Pairings**: SM/LL, BM/WW - but only background  
**Genre**: Friendship, h/c  
**Warnings**: (apparent) character death. Spoilers for the JLU episode _Hereafter_, as well as various basic DCAU spoilers such as _World's Finest, _etc.  
**Summary**: In the wake of _Hereafter_, the friends and families of Clark Kent/Superman must learn to live with the knowledge that Superman is dead. One man refuses to believe this, and while balancing the aftershocks of Superman's death and its effects on the League and the world, sets out to prove it.  
**A/N: ** The two-part JLU episode _Hereafter _left far too many plot holes and unfulfilled details and scenes. This is my attempt to make a researched, scientific story detailing the enormity of details needing to be addressed with Superman's death as well as the scientific processes Batman would have gone through in an effort to discover what really had happened to him. Story begins with Superman's disappearance and progresses to the night after his return to present-day Metropolis, studying the effects of his death upon those who were associated with him, and detailing one man's determination to prove the truth. Not an AU, in technicality, more of what I believe might - or should - have accompanied the glimpses we got in the episode.

**New A/N:** I just rented All-Star Superman, DCAU's newest movie, and watched it - and it reawakened my love for these characters for the first time in a long time. I do really want to get this story written and out there, so bear with me.

* * *

Weather Wizard.

Livewire.

Kalibak.

Metallo.

Toyman.

_Toyman_, of all people.

And he thought the psychopaths of Gotham were twisted beyond humanity's recognition.

He didn't realize he was clenching the controls so tightly until it took him three attempts to pry his fingers loose and reach for the radio when it squawked.

"_Master Bruce_," came Alfred's clipped warning voice, in that tone that indicated failure to respond now would result in a single-handed staff strike at Wayne Manor. "I know perfectly well you are _there_, sir, so kindly have the decency to stop pretending you are out of range."

"_What_, Alfred?" he finally growled, banking over Metropolis Harbor and trying to not look at the brightly-lit Daily Planet building, still alive even close to midnight – no doubt printing up a special edition.

"And do not take that tone of voice with _me_, sir!" He sighed audibly, the only apology he would give, and the elderly man continued, more gently. "Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_."

"That's what I was afraid you would say, sir."

"Alfred, I can't do this now," he warned. The engines slowed to a purr as he powered down to begin the descent into the cave.

"As you wish, sir," came the subdued response. "Ms. Diana asked me to inform you she was spending the night with the Kents."

He respected that woman more every moment, it seemed like. "Good. Alfred, tomorrow make the arrangements to have them flown – or at least brought by train – to Metropolis."

"I've already booked tickets, sir."

He almost – almost – smiled slightly. "Have you heard from the Gotham police yet."

"You have several large crates of – and I quote Miss Gordon – _technological junk_ waiting for you, sent over from the Metropolis police at the insistence of the Justice League."

"Good. I'm entering the cave now. I'll need fuel, and any information we have on this Toyman."

"Both are waiting on you. As is a visitor."

"If it's the Martian, tell him no, I _don't_ want to talk about it!" he snapped, slowing as he passed through the cavernous chambers of the cave, disturbing a cloud of drowsing bats.

_The last time Clark had been in town, he'd followed him in one night (probably for Alfred's cookies rather than to talk to him, Superman was a sucker for oatmeal chocolate chip) and complained that the squeaking hurt his ears…_

He rammed the controls and set the plane down with enough force to dislodge a boulder or two. Ignoring the disapproving look he received from the long-suffering butler, he snatched the sheaf of papers the man held out and strode to the oversized computer without another word.

The chair, and its occupant, swiveled around to meet him, and he stopped in his tracks.

"You're not getting rid of me, Bruce, so don't try it," Dick Grayson warned quietly, but as emphatically as the glare the Batman was sending him. "Yeah, look at me like that all you want, but Clark was a friend of mine too, remember."

The young man vacated The Chair, and stood for a moment, half-expecting to get thrown out of the Cave for his trouble.

Bruce glared for another moment, and then decided he had better not make any more mistakes than he already had today. He sat, and began pounding information into the computer without saying so much as a hello.

When five minutes went by in silent key-tapping, and no objects being hurled or punches being thrown, the elderly butler breathed a sigh of relief and made his way upstairs to telephone Ms. Diana about the arrangements for the Kents' transportation.

"Bruce, look…I know we've not been on the best of terms lately…" Dick began, running a hand through his dark hair. The silence was not unusual, but even so the air hung heavy as lead with tension, boiling in a molten chasm just below the surface.

"Your point?"

"You sure aren't making this easier on anyone, are you?" the young man demanded hotly. "The house has been ringing all night, because no one in the League knows where you've been."

"I suppose you'd like me to tell Kent's identity to all of them, and all sev- _six_ of us show up at the farm?"

"No, but you could at least act like a decent human being and tell them where you went, instead of sulking by yourself all night," Grayson snapped. "You're not the only one who's grieving here, Bruce!"

He wheeled around, half-out of his chair and fist clenched, before the calm look in those eyes – he never had been able to resist them, had he? – stopped him cold. The kid always had known exactly which buttons to push to get the reaction he wanted, hadn't he? Now he was _purposely_ goading him into releasing tension, hoping Bruce would lash out and instigate an all-out brawl rather than brood all night about what had happened.

He always had known him better than Bruce knew himself.

His fist dropped, still clenched, back to his side; the glove creaked at the release. He sat back, and rested his head in his hand for a second. "Let's not do this," he muttered after a silence, and turned back to the computer.

Metal screeched on stone, making Alfred upstairs cringe and hope the chair Master Dick was dragging would not leave scratches in the swept floor. The young man settled into the chair beside him, and wisely kept silent while he finished accessing the footage taken of the event that afternoon.

"Something's not right about this," Bruce muttered finally.

"Besides the obvious, I take it."

Typically, he was ignored, and the older man continued, bringing up the five criminal profiles onto the screen. "These five, Dick. What do you see?"

Grayson shrugged, resting his chin on his arms, crossed over the back of his chair. "Five crazed super-villains, courtesy of the city of Metropolis. We have our own kooks here, and they're no different."

"Dick, you saw what happened, I take it, on the news?" With three sharp clicks he accessed the footage of the…_event_ – he wouldn't call it anything more personal, he _wouldn't_ – and played it.

Trying to ignore his stomach's twisting as Superman's shout of pain shook the cave, he pointed at the screen. "The man is invulnerable," he snapped. "That was no ordinary blast of energy. Not even an atomic ray could – could –"

"Disintegrate him, you mean," Dick was kind enough to finish the sentence for him, and he nodded brusquely. "Then what was it?"

"I don't know," he muttered, gloved fingers tapping absently on the countertop. "But none of these five had the knowledge to create it, whatever it was, unless Toyman is more of a genius than any of us – including Clark – ever took him to be. Toyman's specialty is in robotic engineering, not atomic physics, at least as far as the Watchtower files say."

"I suppose that's where you're headed, then, to talk to him." Dick stood, stretched his arms over his head, and forcefully shut off the video, frozen on the shocked faces of the horrified Metropolites.

"Yes. And I'm going _alone_." With a swish of cape, he was halfway toward the plane's refueling station.

Annoyingly, Dick followed him. "That's why I'm here."

A hand came down on his shoulder, and his boot screeched on stone as he stopped, resisting the urge to shake it off. They'd only just patched things up recently, and even he wasn't stupid enough to endanger that thin truce. "Excuse me?"

Grayson moved in front of him, and adopted a mirroring pose, arms folded across his chest and glaring, equally stubbornly. "Because I know you, Bruce," he said pointedly. "You're going to dump Tim with this city for the next however-long-it-takes for you to accept the fact that he _isn't coming back_. For Pete's sake, back off, Bruce – I wasn't trying to tick you off!" he exclaimed, stepping backward out of instinct as the older man stiffened, the beginnings of a snarl rising below the cowl.

"I was just _saying_," he continued, more cautiously, his voice dropping to a controlled, soft tone, "that I'm willing to help Tim with Gotham if you need to be in Metropolis for a while."

Stunned, Bruce stared through white lenses at the entirely earnest young man before him. They were still on rocky ground here, and they both knew it. Old wounds ran deep and left scars that never became invisible, and it seemed that every time an effort was made to at least put a bandage on them, it was ripped off in the most painful way possible.

"Take the time you need, Bruce," Dick said quietly.

But now, more important things were at stake than old feuds.

"Tim would appreciate your assistance, I'm sure," he replied at last, and stepped past his old partner toward the plane.

Dick let him go. Along with knowing how to get a reaction out of the Batman, was knowing how to read between the lines of too-complicated dialogue.

The truly heart-breaking thing, Nightwing mused, was that now Bruce had just lost the only non-family member who was nearly as good at filling in those gaps as he and Tim and Alfred were.


	4. Standalone Conclusion

**Title**: Hereaftermath (Standalone Conclusion)  
**Characters**: Clark Kent/Superman, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Lois Lane  
**Pairings**: implied SM/LL, gen  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 3800~  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: As usual, I'm a detail nut, and anything in the established (Toonami) DCAU canon (meaning _STAS, BTAS, JLU_, and _BB_) is possibly and probably referenced. ** Specific episodic spoilers for the events of _Hereafter_.** Also, in my personal headcanon, Lois pretty much is smart enough to know who Clark Kent is, she just likes making him squirm. :P  
**Summary**: Shameless wrap-up fluff & h/c scene for the aftermath of _Hereafter_, just for the heck of it.  
**Explanation**: This was the original oneshot which sparked my as yet unfinished chaptered fic, _Hereaftermath_. I've come to the realization that I probably will never finish that story, simply because I have pages and pages of scattered scenes between the completed three chapters and this, and no real threads to connect them with.  
**A/N:**I could have left this as a missing scene instead of turning it into a scientific analysis of what had to have happened in the episode, and due to recent comments from old readers of mine, asking if I'll ever write for this 'verse again, I decided to just put this up as a oneshot and thank my old readers for loving my own childhood universes as much as I do. Brought back to mind by the recent resurgence of interest in the DCAU due to several new movies, here's probably my last foray into this universe for a while.

* * *

Three hours later, Clark darted back in through the window of his bedroom and shut the curtains. Humming quietly to himself while he thought about Lois's smile (and the slap she gave him for scaring her when he reappeared), he changed into his most comfortable pajamas and slippers and then went out to get something to drink, wondering if everything in his kitchenette would have expired after a month.

He flipped on a small table lamp in the living room on his way, and then began rummaging through the drawers of the tiny apartment pantry in search of anything that hadn't molded over.

Finding nothing, he sighed, and turned around to look in the fridge.

He came nearly nose-to-nose with the silent dark figure leaning against it, and floated a few inches into the air with a startled yelp.

"You know I _hate_ it when you do that!" he exclaimed, settling back down into his slippers.

A small cardboard box thudded onto the counter beside him, rustling enticingly, and he looked from it to his visitor, a question in his eyes.

"Earl Grey," Bruce clarified helpfully.

"Yes, I see," he retorted. "Where do you keep _that_ in your utility belt?"

"Funny. I figured everything you had was moldy or soured by now."

Clark opened the refrigerator door and grimaced, shutting it quickly. "Yeah, I would agree with that." He looked for a moment at the impassive dark mask, searching for any kind of reaction other than the coldness of earlier, but, receiving nothing, finally just decided on smiling uncertainly. "Thank you."

"Mmhm."

He opened the box carefully so he could re-seal it afterwards. "Um…" he swallowed hesitantly, and glanced up over the fragrant tea bags. "You want some?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"I'm not here for a _tea party_," Bruce growled, folding his arms. "I have to fill you in on what we did to make Clark Kent disappear."

Suddenly the room seemed a lot darker than Clark had thought. He filled a cup with water and sighed, absently watching the bubbles pop on the surface as the water rose. "Oh. That's why you're here, then?"

"Why else would I be?"

Yes, the room definitely was darker than he had thought – he needed to change those bulbs in the fixture.

One minute and two short blasts of heat vision later, he was sitting on his couch with a nearly-boiling cup of tea. Batman had partially opened the window curtains and now stood, black silhouetted against black, ticking off points methodically on gloved fingers.

"First, it didn't help matters that you were actually _at_ the _Planet_ building when that fiasco started downtown," he growled. "I don't know what excuse you gave White for leaving your desk when we contacted you, but it wasn't a _good_ one. He was close to firing you when I got there that evening, for not coming back to work."

Clark cringed. "I just said I'd just remembered parking my car in a four-hour parking zone," he mumbled sheepishly into his cup.

"Great. Clark Kent is lucky Perry White was too occupied with the…death of Superman, to really be concentrating on the story Bruce Wayne spun for him."

Superman looked over the rim of his cup, but the momentary hitch in Bruce's voice hadn't left any visible signs. Maybe he'd imagined it? "What story was that?" he asked quietly.

Bruce shrugged. "Just that I was pulling owner's rank, and reassigning you to the Gotham offices for the next month or so. In a week the intrepid reporter would conveniently be knifed by a typical Gotham thug in a dark alley. Special edition of the _Planet_ in your honor, an apology from Wayne Enterprises and the Mayor for the city's dangerous residents, and that would be the end of it."

Clark shivered, even though he didn't really feel the cold, at the clinical tone. "And he believed you?"

A muscle twitched under the cowl. "Pitched a fit about it, but he really couldn't do anything. Besides, he had other things on his mind, such as a hysterical Lois Lane crying on his office couch."

Clark set the tea down, his appetite gone now. "Did you –"

"I did what I had to, and so did she," Bruce stated flatly, though his voice softened for a moment from its chilled steel. "She's a strong woman, Kent."

Clark studied the carpet for a moment. "I know."

"She took it better at the time than Diana did, but the funeral was harder on her. Diana and I flew out and told your parents, too, that first night."

He blinked quietly for a moment, and Bruce cleared his throat loudly and continued. "But I didn't go through with the death scheme for Kent, because I found out you weren't really dead – there was still hope. So I just informed the Planet offices you were being sent into Europe on a correspondence venture. They think you're coming back from somewhere in Italy right now, so get your story straight before you go back to work."

He nodded mechanically. "Anything else I should know?"

"No. Other than the fact that every supervillain on the planet views your monument as a sign for open season on Metropolis." Bruce's lips tightened thinly under the cowl, and he turned to glance out at the twinkling lights of the city below. "They've been all over the city, no matter how hard I – we've worked to stop them."

It didn't take super-hearing to notice the word change. "I appreciate you keeping everyone safe, Bruce," he said gently. "And taking care of…of things, instead of hiding in your cave and letting the media do it for you. It means a lot to me."

He wasn't sure if the grunt was a you're-welcome-and-you-owe-me grunt, or a what-else-could-I-do-you-were-_dead_ grunt, but either way he stood and moved slowly toward the window. The lamp on the table cast a haloed reflection on the glass, and beyond it the lights of the city sparkled, mirroring the stars just above the clouds. He'd missed it so much, and it had never looked so beautiful.

"So…" he began from a safe distance away. "You really believed I was still alive?"

"I _knew_ you were." Leather creaked in protest as, hidden inside his cape, Bruce's fists clenched. "I just didn't know _where_ you were, or _when._"

"I'm sorry…"

"I tried everything I could think of. Every test, every bit of research, every person I could think of. You couldn't have been sent to the past, because nothing changed, no anomalies in the world's history as far as I could tell."

Clark looked worriedly sideways, as a talkative Batman was rarely an in-control Batman, but Bruce was staring straight ahead at the window, expressionless.

"Bruce?"

"Dr. Fate couldn't locate you in any dimension. Zatanna couldn't find traces of magic because there was no residue left at the scene. I went down to the Fortress to see if you'd ended up in the Phantom Zone. While I was there I tried to use that Kryptonian technology and discover what that disintegration beam could have been, but couldn't find a single trace."

"Batman –"

"Star Labs and WayneTech scientists couldn't explain what might have happened beyond the idea of it being an accelerated tachyon beam, which didn't help us figure out how to get you back. I even went to LexCorp, practically _begging_ for scientific explanations and willing to pay a fortune for them."

"Listen, Bruce –"

"Luthor just _laughed_ at me, and reminded me of the business deal I broke with him all those years ago."

"Bruce!" Alarmed, he grabbed the black-draped shoulder with the intention of giving the man a good shake – but then he realised Bruce was already shaking, the movement unnoticeable until now, buried as he was in the thick dark folds of his impenetrable cape. And now he paused for a minute, listening instead of just watching, and realized Batman's pulse was dropping radically.

Clark's eyes widened, and he loosened his grip, gently turning Bruce to face him, and became concerned when he met no resistance at all.

White-lenses eyes stared unseeing at him, lips pressed together into a thin, wavering line. "He _laughed_ at me, Clark. Said that you were _dead_, and he wasn't about to do anything that would ruin that for him."

"It's okay, Bruce."

"They _all_ believed you were dead."

He shivered, for Bruce's voice was flat, cold, completely devoid of any emotion or inflection, and it frightened him. "I know. But –"

"_All_ of them. Even Dick told me I needed to accept it, and _move on_."

"Bruce, you're scaring me." Bringing his left hand up as well as his right, he squeezed his friend's quivering shoulders tighter in an effort to bring some reality back into a day - a month! - that had spiraled completely out of control, for everyone. Clark wasn't a doctor, but if the signs he could see and hear were accurate, Batman was dangerously close to going into delayed shock. "Calm down now. It's over, all of it."

For the first time, the pointed ears started, and suddenly inclined toward his voice. "…What?"

Relieved at the response, small though it was, he breathed in relief and bent his head slightly toward the uplifted, blank gaze. "Bruce, it's okay," he repeated, more confidently this time.

For few seconds he could hear every car wheel outside, a plane circling into the Metropolis airport, Lois's television down the hall blaring the newsreels of his return to life and the clink of her coffee-spoon, but loudest of all were Bruce's eyes blinking, suspiciously rapid, under the mask.

At the same time that he decided to move closer even if it meant Batman was going to get angry with him, Bruce finally went limp, as if an invisible puppet string that had been holding him upright had just snapped. Clark was there to catch him as his head slumped forward onto the shoulder of his pajama jacket, and shifted his grip to be tight enough for to feel secure but not so tight that Batman would feel trapped.

Apparently he needn't have worried about the last, because the man was shaking too badly to even move at the moment.

"Hey…it's all right, Bruce," he murmured quietly, and he felt a responsive shudder. "When was the last time you slept?"

"For how long?" was grunted thickly into his shoulder, and he frowned.

"More than an hour?"

"No idea."

He bowed his head over the stern lines of the Bat-costume. "That's what I thought. I'm taking you home, right now."

"No." The protest was dull, but pleadingly sincere. "Not yet, Clark."

"All right," he answered softly. "You can stay as long as you need to."

He heard a muffled _mmrrf_ by way of thanks, and tightened his arms for the next minute or so. Finally, Batman cleared his throat pointedly, and Clark stepped back a pace, still keeping his hands on Bruce's shoulders.

"You okay?" he asked, eyes soft and worried.

"Don't _ever _do something like that again," Bruce rasped.

"What, hug you?"

"You know what I mean," he growled, muscles tightening under Clark's hands.

"And _you_ know I'm not going to promise to never take a bullet for you, or Diana, or anyone else I care about," Superman responded simply, but in a tone that promised an epic battle for anyone who dared argue – even the Batman.

For a moment they stood there, glare to glare, willpower to willpower. Then,

"Thanks," Bruce croaked in a gravelly mutter, and Clark nodded, smiling and thereby acceding a stalemate rather than a one-sided victory for either of them. Bruce's gauntleted hand started to rub mechanically across his eyes, only to scrape against the cowl. Sighing, he pulled the mask backward and began to pinch his forehead.

"Headache?" Clark asked solicitously, though his mind was more on the dark circles underneath Bruce's blood-shot eyes.

"Yeah…"

"So you haven't slept, and if that's your stomach I hear you haven't eaten either?"

"Alfred's going to murder me," he muttered in agreement, taking two unsteady steps and collapsing onto Kent's couch in an inglorious sprawl of cape.

Clark frowned. "I could order a pizza?" he suggested.

A disgusted grumble.

"I think I have some popcorn somewhere. Popcorn doesn't expire in a month, does it?"

"Kent. Shut _up_."

Clark laughed at the snarl, muffled as it was in one of the sofa cushions his Ma had made for him. "That's more like the Batman I missed." Covering a yawn with the back of his hand, he floated over to perch on the arm of the couch. "You know I have extra pajamas, if you want to spend the night here."

"No," Bruce muttered wearily, rolling over to look upside-down at him. "You _fly_ in your sleep, and I _shout_. Not a good combination for an apartment complex."

"Mmm," he shrugged. Eyes contracting, he glanced dreamily down to where he could hear Lois washing up her dishes for the night.

Bruce raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Are you _peeking_ into her _apartment_?"

Properly embarrassed, he blushed darker than the burgundy carpet and returned the walls to their usual opacity. "Of course not! Well… I mean, I don't usually," he amended sheepishly. "It's just that I heard her getting ready for bed, and – no, that is _not_ what I meant, Bruce!" he spluttered, his face darkening at the Batman's obvious amusement. "I just…wanted one more look at her, _before_ she started getting dressed for bed, because this past month I didn't think I would ever see her again, and…ohh…forget it." He finally moaned, giving up on digging himself out of the verbal grave he had just made.

"You, Clark, are a very, _very_ bad Boy Scout."

"Never mind," he muttered, feeling his ears burn in utter mortification. He was glad when the telephone rang, because it gave him the opportunity to escape Bruce's smirking.

"Don't answer it as Kent, remember," the latter instructed tiredly as Clark moved to the kitchenette to get it.

"Right," he answered, and lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"Ah, Master Kent, it is good indeed to hear you again! We had nearly given up hope, until we saw the news this evening. Welcome back, sir."

He smiled happily at the familiar voice, reminiscent of the best cooking he knew of outside the state of Kansas. "Thank you, Alfred. It's good to be back."

"Excellent."

"I think I can guess, but why are you calling me at this hour?" Clark asked with a grin toward the oblivious Batman, who despite his previous protests was more than half-asleep already on the couch, one gloved arm dragging limply on the carpet.

"Yes, sir, I am rather certain you can. Would Master Bruce be there with you, by chance?"

"Yes, he is. How did you know?"

He heard a cultured sigh trickle through the line. "Master Bruce has spent all of, I believe, six nights in this house in the last four weeks, Master Kent. Over half of those remaining, I happen to know he spent in your apartment, doing heaven only knows what; not sleeping, by the look of him. The probability was simply high that he might be there with you now."

His eyes softening at this piece of news, Clark glanced back out to the living room, and grinned when he saw that Bruce was definitely asleep now, silently snoring with his mouth half-open. "Yes, he is. I'll bet he forgot to tell you he was all right when the Batplane went down today, didn't he?"

"He did indeed, sir," the elderly butler sighed the tolerant sigh of those who are always left behind to pick up the pieces and work magic to put them back together. "Shall I come and fetch him?"

"No, I don't think so." He walked noiselessly back into the living room. Bruce grunted and rolled over, but didn't wake up when Clark shouldered the phone and pulled the afghan off the armchair to throw over the sleeping man. "I'll bring him home in time for work tomorrow, all right?"

"Very good, sir. And many thanks. We are _all_ very glad to see you home safe."

The wealth of unspoken but honest sentiment warmed him inside and out, and he finally felt the contentment spread to push out the awkward uncertainty of earlier. "Thank you, Alfred," he ended, and hung up the phone smiling, thankful from the bottom of his heart that he was home.

Then he crept to the living room lamp and turned it off, but left his bedroom door ajar, just in case.

* * *

However, the apartment was peaceful all the way until early the next morning.

Thanks to a telephone message left the night before by Bruce Wayne, Perry White's first action upon returning to the _Planet_ offices after three hours of sleep (having been up running the presses all night with an extra about Superman's miraculous resurrection) was to phone Lois Lane and ask her to check on Kent's apartment, to make sure no one had trashed it while he was away.

After a string of instances where Clark had either locked his keys in his car, his desk, lost them between the elevator and his apartment, or half-a-dozen other reasons he gave her for knocking on her door in the evenings and asking to use the phone or chat her up (though she had the odd feeling that half the excuses were completely made-up), he had sheepishly asked her to keep a spare apartment key for him, just in case.

It came in handy this morning, since she was in a hurry (having also been up all night writing the story on Superman's reappearance). Pop into the apartment, make sure nothing had died in the kitchen during the last month, turn the air conditioning on, pop back out. And when Clark got back and called to thank her for it, she could demand he buy her dinner in repayment. Flawless logic.

She was certainly not expecting the lights to be on in the living room when she let herself in, and dead sure wasn't expecting to find a half-costumed Bruce Wayne sitting at the kitchenette's small breakfast table, gagging down the sugared brew Clark liked to call coffee and reading the _Daily Planet_'s extra.

She barely had time to see the unmasked eyes widen guiltily above the coffee mug (ironically enough, the cheap one with the Superman logo on it that Jimmy had given Clark for his last birthday), before a sudden breeze from the open living room window sent her clutching to keep her skirt down; seriously, if she'd known it was that windy outside, she would've dressed a bit more warmly. Ten seconds later, the apartment door slammed, and she turned around to see a slightly-disheveled Clark staring at her in surprise, tie askew and hands full of donuts.

She was no fool, thanks very much, and wondered how Bruce could think she didn't see him relax with a silent sigh of relief.

"Lois? What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Smallville," she retorted, one hand on her hip. "The Chief said you wouldn't get in until tonight. Or did he misunderstand your message, _Mr_. Wayne?"

Unperturbed, Bruce returned to his coffee and let Clark flounder visibly for several seconds. Finally Lois took pity on the man and appropriated the smallest of the donuts.

"Thanks."

"Um…sure," Clark gulped, setting the rest of them down on the table and busying himself with straightening the napkins (which were already perfectly straight).

"I was in the neighborhood all night, Justice League business as you can imagine," Bruce finally interjected smoothly. "And didn't find out until this morning that Mr. Kent had gotten an earlier flight home from Milan. We had some business to discuss with his returning to the Metropolis offices, naturally."

"Oh, naturally," she agreed innocently.

Clark coughed furiously for a second. "Yeah. I…uh…just told Mr. Wayne that Gotham's not for me, no matter how much more money I'd be making," he added.

"Mmhm." She declined the coffee, making Clark nervous, and sat down beside Bruce, making Superman even _more_ nervous. "I turned down the same job, remember?"

"You know it's still open, if you want it," Bruce said in his softest tone and even softer smile, leaning slightly toward her inclined face and half-draping one arm across the back of her chair.

She wasn't sure which she enjoyed more, the open flirting from the Prince of Gotham, or the look of death Clark sent him for doing it.

But both she and Bruce knew where her heart really was, and she only grinned and scooted away before the man could do anything else. "You don't seem overly excited to learn that your Big Boss is really the Dark Knight, Clark," she observed finally, catching the reporter mid-glare.

"He's known."

"I've known," Clark said at the same time, and both men looked at each other warily.

"Yes, I gathered that from the fact that he's sitting at your kitchen table, drinking coffee with you, as familiar as you please."

"Lois…"

"And now, Clark Kent, you have some explaining to do," she continued, smiling ruthlessly at him and tapping one toe on the linoleum. "Such as _why_ you haven't answered a _single_ letter or phone call from me in the last _month_?"

Bruce cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll be going now," he muttered hastily, pulling his cowl back over his eyes.

"No need to," Lois said sweetly. "You're next, for sending Mr. Kent to Europe without even a chance to say goodbye."

"I…er…have urgent business in Gotham." He edged toward the door in hopes that she'd go for the _indestructible_ one of the two. "It was…nice seeing you again, Lois."

"Certainly better than the _last_ time I saw you, the night Superman died but didn't really die…"

"_Ulp_," Clark swallowed the remainder of his coffee, apparently without realizing it was boiling hot, and promptly choked on it.

Bruce took it for the distraction technique it was meant to be, and beat a hasty retreat despite the frantic looks he was getting from an increasingly nervous Superman. "I'll contact you later, Mr. Kent," he called from the living room door.

"Um…right," Clark mumbled around a cough, pushing his glasses up to look through them at Lois's smirk, instead of _over_ them like he had been for the last five minutes without realizing it. "Now look, Lois…I can explain…"

"You'd better do more than that, after a month."

"Huh?"

Bruce shut the door behind him just before Lois pounced.

Almost grinning at the sounds he could hear through the thin apartment walls, he jabbed the elevator button, growled a _good-morning_ to the bug-eyed cleaning woman who emerged and gaped at him, and punched the button for the ground floor.

His mobile phone rang while he was nearly back to Gotham in a private car; Perry White wanting to know if Wayne could tell him when Kent would be returning to the _Planet_ offices permanently, and did he have any idea why Lois Lane was two hours late arriving at work?


End file.
